


Fizzy Colas

by Foxsake5



Series: Moments in Sander's life as Robbe's boyfriend [2]
Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, M/M, Sex is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxsake5/pseuds/Foxsake5
Summary: Sander on a 'bros night out' 🍻
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Series: Moments in Sander's life as Robbe's boyfriend [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101524
Comments: 30
Kudos: 190





	Fizzy Colas

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, is anyone here? Or have you all fled the fandom? 🥺
> 
> So this is nonsensical fluff I had to get out of my system before tackling some angst in chapter two of my WIP, which I AM WORKING ON, I promise. My inspiration sadly took a dip as this season progressed.
> 
> I sort of rage-wrote this as soon as I caught up on WTFock, because disappointment... Call it self-preservation.
> 
> Fun fact: I accidentally posted this too early and had to cancel and totally felt like the intern 😌😜👍🏽

**Fizzy Colas**

On their way to the bar, Robbe pulls him by the sleeve of his leather jacket into one of those shops that has a neon sign blinking in the window – ‘ _Open_ ’ – and is so tiny and fully stacked that Sander feels like an oaf manoeuvring the narrow aisles, his shoulders constantly brushing the items in the shelves and his boots kicking random boxes on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Jens appears in the doorway, the fluorescent light that reflects off jars and cans forcing him to squint. They had been pregaming at his place for longer than planned, and now he is anxious to move them along. Apparently, there’s some chick texting him.

Outside, the sun has set, and the early autumn air is crisp. Sander spots Moyo and Aaron on the street, sharing a cigarette and engaging strangers in that type of small talk only drunk people have the patience for.

The shop keeper is behind the till, his belly stretching the buttons of his blue shirt, and he couldn’t be less bothered by his potential customers, rather more interested in the flickering images of a football match on the TV that he has crammed into a corner.

“Just got a craving, is all.” Robbe’s cheeks are pink and his brown eyes shine bright from a few beers too many. “You can go ahead, we’ll catch up.”

“Hell no, and risk you two disappearing again? This is a night out with the bros. And bro in law, I guess.”

Sander lifts a brow at his tone and so does Jens, as if saying, _yeah,_ _you heard me. I’m onto you_.

Well, as he should be, otherwise he’s blind; Sander isn’t _subtle_ , is he?

Robbe’s friends are chill and Sander knows he’s a fairly popular addition to their gang, but he won’t pretend he’s a _bro_ to earn cheap points, and maybe that ruins the mood a little. He is Robbe’s _boyfriend_ , and who can blame him for his wandering hands, on a mission to get them alone, especially when he has to suffer through another round of Fortnite. Lucky for him, Robbe isn’t that keen either, and he usually scoots back into Sander’s arms, happy to watch and absentmindedly play with Sander’s rings.

Believe it or not, he and Robbe are pretty laidback, in the sense that they’re respectfully not overdoing it whenever they hang out in a crowd. Granted, Sander’s definition of ‘laidback’ is awfully skewed. If Robbe gets distracted and Jens has to toss a cushion at him to gain his attention, it’s not _Sander_ ’s fault. Nope, he is being the perfect gentleman, tangling his fingers in Robbe’s hair, placing sloppy kisses on his jaw, mumbling promises for later…

Fuck it, sometimes – most times – he can’t help himself.

Like earlier, when he arrived at Jens’, tired and grumpy because he hadn’t had his fix since he rolled out of bed late for class this morning, not a second to spare for savouring Robbe’s post-sex bliss, and Robbe came bounding into the hallway on socked feet in a sunshine-worthy glow to greet him. Sander had hugged him crushingly hard, wanting to take him home immediately. He could have wept in relief. Nothing feels as good as Robbe pressed tight against him, their hearts in sync, Sander’s name whispered into the collar of his jumper, lips a feather touch to his skin.

 _Of course_ , Sander had chased his sighs, and he might have sneaked a grab at his arse, too.

Poor Aaron, being the designated one to check on them as Robbe failed to return to the living room. And when he eventually did, freshly bitten and tousled, the teasing was merciless. Robbe lowkey sulked about it, bless him. For his part, Sander was immensely proud of his work.

Ignoring Jens, he hooks a finger in Robbe’s belt loop and gives it a gentle tug. He misses him so much today. They _have_ to skip the bar.

Robbe sends him a ridiculously soft smile over his shoulder, the mark on his neck a lovely crimson smudge.

Sander can’t grasp the fact that he’s living his dream. A year ago, he stood full of feeling in a cold warehouse – vision clearer than through the lens of his camera for the first time – and decided to take one last chance on _hope_. He’d hoped to see him again, he’d hoped to meet him again, he’d hoped to kiss him again, he’d hoped to wake up beside him again… And it led him to this, Robbe guiding him through a sparkly labyrinth on a Friday evening, tipsy and giggling, calling his best friend out on his hypocrisy while stealing secretive glances at Sander, thinking he’s smooth, and Sander is absolutely over the moon. 

Jens snorts. “Give me some credit, I won’t ditch you guys. It’s you and your track record that worries me, IJzermans. C’mon, be quick, Moyo said drinks are on him and you know he’ll go back on his word if he sobers up.”

A merry jingle signals that Jens is going to wait with Moyo and Aaron, and _finally_ on their own, Sander wraps his arms around Robbe’s waist and slips his hands, still stained and sore from hours of painting, into the pocket of his hoodie, shuffling his feet until Robbe comes to a stop.

“Hi,” he murmurs, already nestling into Robbe’s warmth and scent, the stress and exhaustion that was an ache in his body vanishing. This is familiar, this is right, this is all that matters.

“Hello.” Robbe chuckles and settles comfortably in his embrace, one hand joining Sander’s inside the roomy pocket to rub his thumb over his knuckles, while the other carefully picks at the colourful packets of sweets in front of them.

Ah, so this is what they’re here for.

“Wow, look, _ninja noodles_?” Robbe’s childlike fascination is so damn cute. “Weird. And gummy spiders too? Ugh, I wouldn’t eat those.”

Sander grins, teeth grazing Robbe’s throat. “You sure we shouldn’t find you some proper food if you’re hungry, babe?”

“Nah, it’s okay. You like these?” Robbe holds up a bag of fizzy colas and Sander shrugs, having no opinion, really. He’s more into desserts, a Red Bull if he’s desperate for a sugar rush. Though licking chocolate off the delectable curve of Robbe’s mouth… _Amai._ That’s certainly the most delicious thing. “No? What do you want, then? Those cherry ones?”

Gathering Robbe closer to his chest, he sways them slowly from side to side. There is tinny music coming from a pair of speakers attached to the roof, a cheesy tune, and naturally, he is all for it. “ _You_ ’re my snack,” he says in his softest voice, and to prove it, he nips at his favourite spot below Robbe’s ear, which makes Robbe squirm, ticklish. 

“Sander, don’t. We’re in a hurry.” Robbe attacks him weakly with the bag. Sander struggles not to burst out laughing from Robbe’s pathetic attempt at staying serious.

He is such a rumpled mess that Sander is in awe at how he does it. When alcohol enters his blood, Robbe looks like he’s been in a tumble dryer, clothes askew and hair floppy and face flushed, and he gets smiley and clumsy and _flirty_ , too, though sadly, they have yet to reach that particular stage.

“Have mercy on me, baby.” He pouts a little. “I’m _dying_ , you know.”

The whole day he’s felt bereft, unsatisfied, and the sole motivation to get through it was to have a moment like this with Robbe at the end. He admits he’s needy so sue him.

Robbe fares better. Even when he is busy being loved up and by Sander’s standards shouldn’t care about anything else, he hates to be of any inconvenience, like keeping his friends waiting. It’s just _him_ , Sander supposes, inherently considerate and kind. He himself is less so, greedy and selfish if others are cutting them short or intruding _. Mine mine mine_. But he is learning. Robbe won’t leave him behind. He always comes back. They have forever. 

Tilting his chin, Robbe slants his eyes towards him, glittering beneath his coffee-black lashes. “You feel quite alive, just sayin’.”

Sander’s pout is erased by a smirk and he spreads his hands low on Robbe’s stomach. “Hmm, you think?” He firmly keeps him in place as he wickedly rolls his hips. God, he worships Robbe’s arse, claimed by him and him only.

That move serves him a sharp elbow to his ribs.

“Shit,” he gasps and leans over in pain. Pressing his mouth, hot and damp, to Robbe’s hoodie, he groans, “I’m officially dead now.”

For all his graceful and dainty manners, Robbe can be an utter menace. A pillow smack to Sander’s nose during his premiere visit to the flatshare should have been a warning sign. Or the way he splashed Sander in the pool, annoying and boyish. Sander had the urge to pin him to the wet tiles and snog him into submission.

Not that he is complaining; he’ll have a reason to pay him back later. And he’s got some fun ideas…

And at least one of them is being responsible, or else they’d be stuck in that heavy make out-session up against Jens’ front door, probably.

“Pfft, you deserved it.” Robbe half-turns to brush a butterfly kiss onto his cheek, and also to nudge at him to take a step back so they can get going.

Sander reluctantly frees his hands from Robbe’s pocket, but before he removes himself, he reaches up to comb back Robbe’s fringe and tuck a couple of wavy strands behind his ear, silver hoop cool against his wrist. He’s not very neat, his boy, with his scuffed shoes and wrinkled t-shirts and too big jeans, dragging around his ducttaped skateboard and that same backpack he’s had since he was twelve. Yet he’s incredibly gorgeous, sexier than he’s aware of. Whenever Sander lays eyes on him it’s as if Cupid’s arrow pierces his heart, the heat and the tingles washing over him.

He’s a stunner, and Sander only went and scored him, didn’t he?

How the fuck did he manage that?

By joking lamely about Robbe being the manager and rating him zero stars? By sending him crashing into carboard boxes? By serenading him with the wrong Bowie lyric? Sander cringes. He had been a total wreck.

“Are you obsessing over me again?” Robbe stares at him with a crooked, dimpled grin.

“Wondering how I got so lucky,” he mumbles, resting his hand on Robbe’s jaw, carved by heaven’s greatest sculptor, no doubt. 

Angling his head slightly to the side, nuzzling into Sander’s palm, Robbe studies him. “It’s hardly a mystery, silly. You’re fucking fantastic. A rock star would be jealous. Did you know I got dizzy around you at the beach house, ‘cause I wanted to feel your hands on me so badly? Made me shit scared! Some catch I am, huh?”

Sander thanks Moyo insisting on doing shots as they got ready to leave for Robbe spilling this gem. Robbe isn’t normally outspoken about how Sander affects him, pouring it into kisses and touches instead.

“Aw, you’re obsessed with me too?”

“Mhm.” Robbe’s gaze drops to Sander’s lips. “So obsessed,” he slurs, eyes almost crossing. 

It’s funny, actually. In the beginning of their relationship, Sander remembers being _terrified_ that the physical affection he needed would put Robbe off. The hunger for him was real and he spent nights at Robbe’s cautious of what he said or did, praying that he wasn’t too much for him to handle.

Little did he know what Robbe was capable of, and he was floored, mind-blown, honestly so fucking thrilled to discover that Robbe couldn’t seem to get enough, climbing onto his back, yanking him this way and that, clinging to him, running his hands, hypnotised, over his skin, crawling into his lap, locking his legs around him, demanding _more_. No one had touched him with such reverence or been as insatiable for his touch in return. It happened in the midst of chaos. A fever dream. And when it was over and he was stripped bare, Robbe came for him and wanted him, still.

Robbe loves hard. Maybe it’s Sander that got more than he bargained for. 

But he fucking _adores_ this one, with his puppy eyes and bony hips and clever brain and grabby hands. He’ll forever love him back, and as loud as he can.

“What are you thinking?” Robbe jostles him playfully. “You got quiet.”

“I, uh.” Sander has to clear his throat. “I was thinking, what if we don’t go to the bar. What if we go back to mine, and I made you a ‘whatever I have in the fridge’ pizza and we cuddled on the couch, and then, you know…” 

He wiggles his brows and Robbe opens his mouth to protest, judging from his guilty expression.

“ _Or,_ ” he scrambles to add, magnanimously giving Robbe an option, which basically is a non-option, because it sounds dreadful even to him. “We could go to the bar and do it in the toilets, it’s up to you. I’m not picky.”

“Sander! I’m not doing you in the toilets of an icky bar.”

“Tell that to your drunk and horny self in, oh, let’s say thirty minutes?”

A mischievous glint is visible in Robbe's eyes, fox-like. “Oh, is that a challenge?”

“Yeah. Yes, it is.” Sander swallows. Dammit, why must Robbe look so _appetising_. Suddenly, he changes his mind, not bearing the idea of having to compromise in a dark, crowded space. He has to have him stretched out on a bed bathed in golden light, where he can admire every inch of him in peace. “I mean, _no_. Can’t we go home? I want- I really want to be with you, Robbe.” 

“Sander…” Robbe bites his lip and he is torn, Sander knows. This is typical them. They can’t be sociable for long without having this conversation.

Sander wonders whether it’s healthy to be this weak in the knees for one’s boyfriend. It’s just that…Robbe is his comfort blanket. He truly is. The sex is amazing, but when it comes down to it, Sander simply wants to _exist_ with him, their thoughts floating calmly, fingers loosely intertwined, lying naked together with nothing to hide on clean cotton sheets.

“I’ll be good, I promise.” He isn’t above begging. Bringing his other hand up, he cups Robbe’s face, thumbs stroking his fevered cheeks, the rest of his fingers curling tenderly into his hair. “Please. I’ll be _so_ good.”

Robbe’s lids drift shut and his mouth slackens. “You are good, Sander,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”

They do thrive on push and shove, but he is easy, his baby, positively melting like butter from Sander’s caresses. Sander is the same in regard to his temper. If he is stubborn and sullen, lashing out at Robbe a little because his parents or medication or therapy or schoolwork test his patience, Robbe hauls him to the nearest flat surface and puts Sander’s head in his lap and plays with his hair until Sander wipes tears onto his thighs, unravelling. He’s not embarrassed by it anymore, not when Robbe is telling him, _I love you_ , over and over, meaning it one hundred percent, in _this_ universe, where they are _Sander and Robbe_ and nobody else anywhere else. They were born to be the two of them. 

“Yeah?” Sander sucks in his bottom lip, excited at getting Robbe talking. “Imagine how good I’ll make you feel. Like this morning. We can finish what we started.”  
  
“Fuck, Sander, I’ve missed you so much. I can still _feel_ you, you know. But…” Robbe frowns, his lashes fanning out, and Sander’s heartbeats stutter in his chest.

“Can I kiss you, Robbe?”

Clutching at Sander’s wrists, Robbe nods and seeks him blindly, and Sander dips in, catching a glimpse of his caramel freckles before the world tips and turns. And then, standing in the small shop with a crinkly bag of fizzy colas between them, the football match roaring with cheers, they kiss, and they get lost in it.

Spellbound, the soles of his boots glued to the floor, he laps up the pretty moan escaping Robbe and drags his tongue over his, slotting them into a deeper kiss. Robbe smells of spice and tastes of sticky rum. A Christmas cake in October. 

The scene is unexpectedly romantic, and Sander can vividly picture the shades of them on pages in his sketchbook, a rainbow of sweets in the background. It _is_ nice to venture out, to break the lazy habit they’ve grown accustomed to since school started again, because kissing Robbe all over Antwerp used to be _his thing_ after lockdown, and he’s enjoyed passing by seemingly unremarkable spots sparking memories of his Robbe.

This shop is theirs now. Fizzy colas, too. Hell, football on TV? He will think of Robbe in an instant, wearing a toffee-coloured hoodie, Sander’s artsy summer school t-shirt peeking from underneath, cuffed jeans and white trainers with one lace undone, and leaning into him with his precious warm weight, their kiss lush and languid and soothing, successfully lulling Sander into a Robbe-induced coma.

“We really should go,” Robbe murmurs in the middle of kitten-licks and nibbles.

“Go home?” 

"No. Go be functioning human beings outside of the bedroom."

"Boring." He tugs at one of the strings of Robbe's hood.

Chuckling softly, Robbe extracts himself and offers an apologetic smile. “We can survive one beer, Sander. I’ll be all yours tomorrow, and on Sunday.”

Blowing out a sigh, Sander feigns petulance. “ _Fine_. But can I sit next to you? Not Aaron, like last time.”

“What an outrageous request.” Robbe blinks comically. “Sorry, I’ll have to think about that. C’mon, let’s buy these, or you buy these, since you have the money.”

Sander snorts. “Is that all I am to you? A bank?”

“Yup. A sexy bank.” Robbe grins at him, shaking the fizzy colas. Sander rolls his eyes and snatches them from him, padding over to the till to hand over the cash to the man in his too tight shirt, who barely shifts his gaze from the TV.

“Here you go, princess.” He pushes the bag into Robbe’s chest and Robbe grapples to tear it open, humming in delight.

“Thank you for being my sugar daddy,” he says, muffled around a mouthful, sugar sprinkling his chin. A rumpled mess, indeed.

Sander laughs and drapes an arm around his shoulders. "You're too fucking cute, I can't deal."

Robbe threatens to toss a fizzy cola at him. Sander leans in and bites it off his fingers, resulting in the sweetest, softest giggles, and Robbe feeding him the second half.

Eager to get on with the night so he and Robbe can _get on_ , he drags them to the door, but now that they are walking again, he notices Robbe stumbling. Right, the shots have hit the system. Or perhaps it’s the sugar kicking in, Sander wouldn’t be surprised. Robbe under any type of influence is boneless, he has come to understand. 

“Wait, not so fast.” Robbe halts them with a hand on Sander’s hip. “ _No way_.”

“Ah, sorry, got a one-track mind, you know me.” He pauses to kiss Robbe’s forehead. They do these types of kisses a lot, without much conscious decision. A shoulder kiss, a nose kiss, a dimple kiss. Plenty of reassuring kisses.

“No, Sander, listen.”

A guitar riff is echoing in the shop, the sound quality horrible but it's nevertheless achingly familiar, and Robbe stares at him in adorable excitement, and Sander stares back, mouth dry, blood rushing in his ears, just like a year ago.

 _Hey babe, your hair's alright. Hey babe, let's go out tonight_.

The music grips his heart, and he is transferred to their first ever shopping trip by the beach and the enormous onslaught of emotions he felt as this very song became the soundtrack to his crush on Robbe. And it is stupid, but he was so lost and Robbe balancing on the trolley, mesmerised, gave him such a sense of validation. Finally, someone _listened_.

Robbe sneaks an arm under Sander’s jacket to pull him closer by the waist. He kisses Sander’s shoulder and looks up at him, wide eyed. “What does it mean, you think?”

Sander looks down at him, for how long, he’s not quite sure. All he sees is Robbe, and all he hears is Bowie.

The sugar is like diamond dust on Robbe's skin.

“That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” 

And Robbe stretches onto his toes and kisses him. Tiny sugary explosions on Sander's tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, take care❣️🥰


End file.
